221 Words
by storyqdayx5d
Summary: A series of short pieces of flash fiction, each 221 words in length.
1. Pet Friendly

A/N: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, and I've never even been to 221B Baker St., unfortunately. All I own are my prompts and my silly stories.

For this story, there is a picture of Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman nose-to-nose. I think it must have been an outtake or something. Anyway, the prompt was to write 221 words on that picture. Google it; there's no mistaking it.

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><p>"No."<p>

Sherlock was not in the mood to be having this discussion, and he was frankly rather perplexed as to why John insisted on bringing it up. Again. They were once again in Chinatown, in the middle of a case, surrounded by bustling shopkeepers and red and gold balloons. There were _other things_ that needed his attention.

"Why not?" John was smiling. Amused. Enjoying Sherlock's irritation.

"The flat is completely unsuitable. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't allow it."

"I've already asked Mrs. Hudson. Already given us the go ahead. Wants to help pick out names."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, grabbed John by the shoulder of his seafoam plaid suit. _Awful._ Sherlock thought, then softened. The green really did bring out the dark blue of John's eyes. Sherlock tried to bring himself back to the matter at hand – putting a stop to the silly argument and getting back to the _case_.

He pressed his nose to John's, tried to look imposing.

John's smile only widened.

"Please?"

"Will it help you focus on the _case_, John, if I say yes?"

"Yes."

Sherlock tried to keep the frown on his face. Failed. Kissed John, once, quickly. Attempted to remain stoic. Failed again. Wouldn't admit he was vaguely excited at the prospect of a new addition to 221B Baker St.

"Very well. We can get a puppy."


	2. Morgue Monologue Molly

A/N: Don't own, as before.

The prompt for this one was to write Molly's inner monologue in the first scene we meet Sherlock in "A Study in Pink" - when he's wailing on the corpse with a riding crop.

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><p>Sherlock didn't need to tell <em>her<em> that the man's alibi depended on it. Molly was the one who'd called Sherlock in on this one. She knew the man, whose lover he was, whose bed he had died in. She liked him, when he was alive. He was nice. She felt bad for him.

Jim, the dead man's brother, worked upstairs and had discovered the body. He'd known what everyone else hadn't and came to her nearly crying. Jim sought her out before she started the post-mortem. He said that the body had been found in a hotel that was particularly known for…illicit liaisons. Really, Daniel had died of a heart attack. Jim said his lover had been discovered with him; now they needed a cover up.

So, the riding crop. Apparently Jim thought it would be easier for the family if it seemed that Daniel was seeing a dominatrix for rough sex, rather than that he was having an affair with a another man. And Sherlock had mentioned that he had an experiment planned that required the study of post-mortem bruises.

Molly shrugged. Who was she to judge? She didn't mind breaking the rules if it meant some small amount of comfort for the man's family – although she didn't see how this version of the man's death was any more comforting.


	3. Before The Woman There Was Irene

A/N: Don't own, as before.

The prompt was to write 221 words on Irene Adler before she became The Woman.

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><p>Irene was eighteen when she began to figure it out.<p>

She liked to watch. Liked to make the boys _do things_. To each other.

There were two at university. One was tall, strapping, big hands, bearded, eyes like ice. The other was thin and small, dark-haired, troubled, sad. The tall one crackled like lightening among clouds, voice rumbling, hands prone to gripping things and squeezing. He bit her all over. She didn't like it much, but the bruises formed interesting patterns on her skin. She only let him do it once. His name was Zachariah.

The other was in love with him, too scared to say it. Followed Irene around instead, worshipped her. Asked her to walk all over him in her spiked heels, leaving footprints up and down his spine. She liked that. Saved up the money Father gave her for food – always too much, he and Mum thought she was too thin – and bought lacey things and leather things. Began walking on other people's backs, other men, grown men, who bought her clothing and perfume and higher and higher heels.

And then sometimes women came to her. Liked that a lot more. Liked to tie them up.

She never forgot Zachariah and the small boy, though. They had one night. At the end of if, she made them kiss.


	4. Do you want to kiss me?

A/N: Just the same as ever: I own nothing recognizable from Sherlock BBC. Oh, this is Sherlock/OFC. Ha!

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><p>"Do you want to kiss me?"<p>

Katharine was the younger sister of one of Mycroft's friends, who, really, Sherlock knew, was only friends with Mycroft because his mother was friends with Mummy. Mycroft couldn't stand the boy, but unlike Sherlock, he had the diplomacy not to show it. Sherlock was eleven and Katharine, crouching down to poke at a toad that was sunning itself on one of the flat slate squares leading to the fountain, was nine. She followed him around and passed him his microscope when he held out his hand. She caught small amphibians and held them still so he could collect on Q-tips the moisture they secreted to help them breathe. She pulled the wings off of dragonflies – she didn't mind dragonflies, which was strange, for a girl – to look at them under a microscope.

"Why?"

Katharine brushed the hair out of her eyes and stood up. She was sweaty in the summer sun and plucked absently at the collar of her shirt. There were grass stains on the white knees of her stockings, and dirt under her fingernails and smudged on her nose. She smiled at him brightly. He blinked; looked from her nose to her mouth.

"Dunno. _Henry's_ always talking about all the girls he's kissed."

Sherlock wondered if Mycroft had ever kissed a girl.

"Okay."


	5. Funeral

A/N: Standard disclaimer: anything recognizable does not belong to me.

The prompt for this one was 221 words on the first time John meets Mummy.

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><p>There weren't many people at the funeral. Mycroft was there, obviously. Lestrade was, too, although he had the decency not to approach John. Mrs. Hudson and Molly, both crying but dignified. (Sherlock would have approved of the lack of obtrusive sentiment.) And an older woman who John, even having never met her before, was able to instantly deduce as "Mummy." She was helped out of a car indistinguishable from the one in which Mycroft was prone to abducting John, by a coifed young man who John could only describe as a male Anthea. Mrs. Holmes was, like everyone present, dressed all in black, but with the kind of casual elegance that suggested that it was the shade that made up the majority of her wardrobe. Her eyes were Sherlock's eyes, John noted.<p>

It was cold day, and overcast; not grey - there didn't even seem to be any storm clouds gathering - just lack of color and warmth. Later John would realize, sharply, that every day from now on would be like this: lacking color, warmth, and that mad, manic energy that was Sherlock Holmes. Even when John had returned home from Afghanistan, there had been something to distract him. Colors were too bright, too harsh, noises too loud. Interactions with people too strenuous. Now everything was on mute, and empty.


	6. That Look

A/N: Sherlock, Molly, John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg - none of them mine. Unfortunately.

The prompt was: 221 words on what Molly does after the Christmas party in _Scandal_.

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><p>It was impossible to stay angry with Sherlock Holmes so instead, Molly was furious with herself. For the stupid dress: too fancy, obviously, for a dinner party at 221B. For the lipstick <em>again<em>. (It wasn't working for her; it never worked for her.) For the x's she'd written on Sherlock's card. Why.

Mrs. Hudson and Greg kept looking over at her, pitying. She took another sip of wine and tried to figure how long it would be before she could leave without seeming rude, or generating any more of those bloody _looks_.

Sherlock never cared about seeming rude.

Maybe that's why she liked him so much. He also never looked at her that way: poor Molly dating Jim the poof from IT. Poor Molly, dumped by Jim who, actually, it turned out, was a psychopath. Poor Molly, why can't she ever find a normal boyfriend?

Sherlock had humiliated her in front of all their friends, flirted with her shamelessly to get into the lab (didn't have to do that; she'd help him anyway). One day she'd probably lose her job, and he wouldn't even feel bad about it - although it would rather inconvenience him, if they sacked her. He was rude and tactless, and sometimes cruel, but she had never seen _that look_ on his face.

She hated that look.


End file.
